


Obfuscation and Abduction

by willowcrowned



Series: Lose All Your Senses [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, No beta we die like mne, ed's awful night out, espionage?, nonsense politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28518483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcrowned/pseuds/willowcrowned
Summary: Ed is many things, but scary-looking is not one of them. Ed looks like a cross between a conditioner advert and a very angry hamster— that is to say, the angrier he gets, the more comical it is. Unfortunately for him, the fact that Roy and Maes both know that he could probably disembowel both of them if he really put his mind to it does nothing to discount the fact that his go-to scary look just resembles a five-year-old narrowing their eyebrows and loudly proclaiming that they are grown up, thank you very much.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang
Series: Lose All Your Senses [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880170
Comments: 25
Kudos: 288





	Obfuscation and Abduction

**Author's Note:**

> this... should probably be two separate works. unfortunately, I could't figure out how to make it work as two separate ones OR as a single one, so instead I stuck it together with silly string and the vague semblance of some connected plot

Roy sighs deeply from where he’s spread out on Riza’s couch, arm thrown over his eyes. 

“Is sleeping beauty over there gonna be fine?” Ed asks from somewhere to Roy’s left. 

“I am not asleep,” Roy protests blandly. “I’m resting my eyes.” 

“Uh-huh,” Ed says. 

Maes snorts. “Don’t worry, if he starts falling asleep for real, Hawkeye will set Hayate on him.” 

Roy sits straight up, removing his hand from his eyes. He’s not scared of Hayate— well, not for the normal reasons; Riza would never let Hayate actually hurt him, but she would let him sit on Roy’s head while licking his bare hand and that’s almost as bad. 

Ed snorts, looking back to Riza’s kitchen table. “Okay, so I’m not supposed to talk to these people.” He points at a list. “What do I do if they try to talk to me?” 

Maes frowns. “Most of them will just ignore you. It’s a military ball— it’s not uncommon for civilians to show up as plus ones and it’s likely that they’ll all be too busy networking to talk to you. If they do notice you, don’t try anything fancy. Just talk about something boring for thirty seconds and they’ll go away.” 

“Like what?” Ed asks. 

“Decorations,” Roy advises, “but don’t sound too smart about it.” 

Ed gives him a mystified look. “How can someone sound smart if they’re talking about _decorations_?” 

“Taste links to wealth. I once threw in a line from an old painting composition book used by higher-class educators while talking about curtains— most people got it, and the ones who didn’t were immediately singled out as lower-class. It was incredibly rude, but I was polite enough while doing it to actually come out on top. That sort of thing,” Roy says, settling back into the crease of Riza’s couch, though he keeps his eyes open. “It’s really not that hard.” 

Ed snorts. “If you’re insane, maybe.” 

Roy shrugs. “I told you there was a reason I was reading that fashion magazine yesterday. It had a good article about new color trends.” 

“For clothes.” Ed blinks. 

“It carries over,” Roy assures him, “especially if you’re doing a themed sort of thing.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Decorating trends aside,” Maes intercedes, “decorations _are_ a good topic. You have the advantage of genuine ignorance— pretend to be astounded at an ice sculpture or two and play up the country bumpkin thing. No one will know the difference.” 

“Alright,” Ed says, “pretend I’ve never seen anything fancier than a sheep-shearing festival, got it.” 

“Have you?” Roy asks, deadpan. 

“What the—” Ed glares at him. “ _Of course_ I have. I’ve been to Xing, asshole. The imperial palace is practically fucking gold-plated.” 

Roy briefly contemplates asking why, exactly, Ed has been inside the imperial palace, but Maes interrupts before he can get the chance. 

“If you’re really having trouble,” Maes says, “Hawkeye will come stand behind you and glare menacingly. She’s terrifying.” 

Riza looks up from where she’s been cleaning a gun, giving him an expression that’s the Riza equivalent of rolling her eyes. Then, as if she’s unaware what it does to her dismissal of the notion that she’s terrifying, she fits two pieces together with a dangerous click. 

“Wait, so she gets to be scary, and I have to just be harmless?” Ed complains. “I’m scary too!” 

Roy meets Maes’ eyes, then looks back at Ed. Ed is many things, but scary-looking is not one of them. Ed looks like a cross between a conditioner advert and a very angry hamster— that is to say, the angrier he gets, the more comical it is. Unfortunately for him, the fact that Roy and Maes both know that he could probably disembowel both of them if he really put his mind to it does nothing to discount the fact that his go-to scary look just resembles a five-year-old narrowing their eyebrows and loudly proclaiming that they are grown up, thank you very much. 

“Shut up,” Ed mutters, glaring at Roy. 

“I didn’t say—” 

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.” 

Roy raises his hands in a graceful defense that he knows will only serve to annoy Ed further (which, yes, perhaps it’s not his most tactically brilliant move, but Ed makes it so very easy and so _very_ rewarding). 

Ed glares at him in a way that promises many unhappy returns. Roy does his best not to smirk. Ed’s glare deepens, which means that Roy’s attempt didn’t work. Oh well, c’est la vie and all. What _ever_ will he do. 

Riza looks up from cleaning her gun ever-so-briefly with a warning look in her eyes to shut up and get moving. He shivers. In all their many years of knowing each other, she’s given him that glare several thousand times, usually for the peanut gallery. He doesn’t relish the times that it's for his benefit. 

“In any case,” Maes says, clearly having seen Riza’s look and not relishing the thought of being on the receiving end of it, “if you’re not sure what to do, just be as boring as possible. If they start trying to pump you for information on Roy—” 

“Give them the line about not actually trying to force the industry regulation bill through, imply that he’s just with me because I’m hot and a decent political move if they’re looking for personal information, and if they start asking about who he’s talking to in parliament, give them Nevelson, Sindall, and Gamblin.” 

Maes opens his mouth, but Ed cuts him off. 

“And yes, I know, don’t actually make it sound like I know he’s just with me because it’s a good move politically— pretend I actually think he’s in love with me or whatever.” 

“That’s something you want to definitely hear from your lover,” Roy mutters. 

Ed snorts. “I have to pretend to be an idiot all night, I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” 

Roy groans. “I’m complaining about having to miss it. It’s been way too long since I’ve watched most of the brass get taken in by a good hot-and-stupid act.” 

“Missing your old routine?” Maes grins. 

Roy rolls his eyes, refusing to dignify that with a response. 

“Actually,” Ed frowns, “won’t it look suspicious that you’re abandoning me after, like, ten seconds?” 

“A little,” Maes shrugs, “but they’ll either assume that he doesn’t think you’re smart enough to pick up on anything that they can use, or that he doesn’t want you listening in on any conversations he has.” 

“Or that you’re a plant,” Riza adds, the first time she’s spoken since she invited them in and told them to take off their shoes. 

“That too,” Maes acknowledges, “which definitely makes our lives more difficult, given that you are a plant. Our best defense is you dropping Gamblin into conversation. It doesn’t look great for Roy, and there’s not a single way he can spin it to make it look better, which means that it’s more likely that they’ll listen to the treaty stuff.” 

“Alright.” Ed frowns. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” Maes claps Ed on the shoulder. “That’s everything I can think of. Anyone else?” 

Roy shakes his head, and Riza gives a nearly imperceptible shake as well. 

“Goodbye,” Riza says, which is abrupt, even for her. 

Roy frowns, and looks around the apartment— really looks around, not just the cursory glance he’d given to see which surface best lent itself to being lain upon. Normally tidy, the place is currently immaculate but for the mess of papers he, Maes, and Ed had brought in. The countertop is spotless, the coffee table is wiped down, and every spare inch of the place has been mopped. 

Roy winces. Riza stress cleans. An apartment this spotless means she’s anxious about something, and he doesn’t like it when Riza is anxious and doesn’t tell him. That means that he’s part of the problem. 

He glances at her and she meets his gaze, lips slightly pursed, meaning that she knows he’s finally realized that something is off, and she’s not happy about it. 

“We’ll be going, then,” Maes says, having noticed the exchange. He starts clearing up the papers, subtly tugging Ed into doing so as well so that Roy can corner Riza and make her tell him what’s wrong. (Well, less ‘make her’ and more ‘beg her.’ Riza Hawkeye does not take kindly to orders that she hasn’t personally shoved down his throat for him to regurgitate later.) 

Roy gets up, collects the errant empty mugs that the four of them had left, and goes to the sink to wash up. He turns the faucet on, sticking it all the way to cold, and counts down from five. 

He reaches one, and, like clockwork, Riza appears behind him with a harsh sigh that means she knows what he just did and she doesn’t like it. Doing housework wrong— a surefire way to summon her even from the depths of hell. 

She turns the faucet to hot, folds her arms, and watches him as he washes out the mugs and sets them to dry. 

“Well?” He asks, once he’s heard Maes and Edward retreat to the entryway to put on their shoes. 

“Are you certain that it’s wise to allow him this much information?” Her tone is classically flat but there’s an icy tinge that means that she already has an answer to her question, and that it’s a no. 

“It’s nothing overly destructive,” Roy says, turning off the water and laying the last of the four mugs out to dry. 

She raises an eyebrow a fraction of a centimeter. 

He sighs. “He’s met the Madam.” 

“You already know how I feel about that,” Riza says coldly. 

That is an understatement. When she’d heard Maes’ idea, and then heard that he’d gone along with it, she’d gone spare (or the Riza Hawkeye version of spare, which involved one very scary session of her staring at him, unblinking, for forty-five seconds with ice-cold eyes, two slammed doors, and bad coffee for a week). Which was even worse than when she’d heard that Ed had figured out exactly who his information network was made up of, and that Roy hadn’t even bothered trying to lie his way out of it. (That had been thirty seconds of glaring, and one slammed door.) 

“He already has access to a good deal of potentially destructive intel— most of it figured out on his own. If he were going to use it, I’d be dead in the water already.” 

“Past performance is not a surefire prediction of future results,” she replies. 

“I doubt he’ll decide to spread anything around if I end the relationship,” he says, since that’s the question she was really asking. 

Riza gives him a sharp look. “You’re gambling.” 

Roy sighs. “I know.” 

“You could cut your losses now,” she continues. “You’re rolling the dice either way; if you end it now, he’ll have less to give away.” 

Roy frowns tilting his head back and letting his eyes blink closed. “There’s more to it than that.” It’s a question phrased like a statement. 

She huffs, an admission of guilt as clear as anything else. “He’s reckless. You can’t afford to keep someone like that. He’s putting you in danger, physically and politically. You’re walking a tightrope, and I don’t like the odds of falling.” 

“He’s better than you’re giving him credit for.” 

“No,” Riza says, so furious and contained that Roy’s eyes shoot open to see her glaring at him with a barely-restrained fury. “I’m not willing to bargain your plans on the chances that he could be useful. Even if he does well tonight, he might slip up two months from now, or five, or a year. Even if he’s safe tomorrow, he could get hurt— get you hurt— in that same span. You’re being short-sighted.” 

Roy closes his eyes again, and takes a breath, keeping his voice carefully steady. “You’re right, of course, but one or two nights won’t do much in the grand scheme of things either.” He opens his eyes, meeting hers. “Give him tonight— let him prove that he can handle himself well enough politically to make him no less of a liability than Havoc. And then...” He sighs. “You and Maes might get hurt in much the same way, physically. You painted targets on yourselves years ago. If he wants to do the same, I’ll let him. He’s not so naïve that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into.” 

‘I care about him,’ he means, ‘enough to compare him to you and Maes. Shouldn’t that count for something?’ 

“I still don’t like that you’re allowing yourself such a vulnerability,” she says, though her tone is softer. 

“I don’t like it either,” Roy admits, “but it happened before I’d realized it had begun. He’s in the middle of this now, for better or worse, and I’m willing to do the work necessary to make sure that he can stay, if that’s what he wants.” 

“And if it’s not?” She asks. “If he ends things instead? What guarantees do you have that he won’t later let things slip not out of malicious intent, but out of pure incompetence?” 

“He’s not so incompetent as to let something slip out by accident,” Roy says, “and he won’t do it on purpose— not unless his entire personality is turned around.” 

Riza considers him. “You have too much faith in his integrity.” 

“You have too little,” Roy counters. He sighs. They’re at an impasse, and they won’t get anywhere arguing the point further, but she knows that and she still looks like she wants to speak. “What else?” 

She lets out a small huff. “I’m... hesitant to allow him the liberties you offer so freely.” 

“Ah.” Roy winces, catching her drift. Riza likes her privacy, and he’d just invited a near-stranger into her apartment. (She’d said yes, of course— they had nowhere better to plan— but he still ought to have apologized beforehand.) “I’m sorry I invited him here— I hadn’t realized you’d have such an opposition to him.” 

“Hm,” she says. “Keep it in mind.” 

“I will.” Roy sighs. “Why haven’t you said anything before now?” 

“Frankly,” she replies, “I’ve been holding out hope that he might end it and you might learn your lesson without my interference.” 

“Ah,” Roy says. “I’ll try not to be too pleased that your hopes have been dashed.” 

“Hm,” she acknowledges. “We’ll continue this later. You had better go. They’re waiting for you.” 

He gives her a weak smile, and she gives him a not-entirely-bothered eye-roll, and that’s about as much as a goodbye as they’ve needed since he turned sixteen in her father’s house. 

He steps into the hallway, almost too distracted to notice Edward stand up guiltily from where he’s been petting Hayate. He sticks his hand in his pocket quickly, hiding whatever it was from Roy’s view. 

Roy frowns. Hayate is circling Ed’s legs, too well behaved to jump up on him. Evidently, though, there’s no amount of discipline in the world that could keep him from going after whatever it is that Ed has in his pockets. 

Roy has a bizarre flashback to about a month ago when they’d run into Riza and Hayate on their day off, and Hayate had been completely indifferent to Ed. Roy furtively glances at whatever is in Ed’s pocket, and then at Hayate’s adoring gait. Interesting. 

“Shall we?” Roy asks. 

“Sure,” Ed says, eyes darting down to where Hayate is still circling him for half a second. 

“Well,” Maes says cheerily, and it’s really anyone’s guess as to whether he’s noticed what’s going on with Ed and Hayate or not, “I’ll see you tonight, then. Don’t forget to be late.” 

Ed blinks. “Don’t you mean ‘Don’t be late?’” 

Maes pretends to consider that for a moment. “I should, shouldn’t I? Unfortunately, Roy’s never showed up earlier than at least an hour in. Chronic tardiness, you know.” 

“I am not _tardy_ ,” Roy protests. “It’s an unwritten rule of politeness. Just because you’re too gauche to bother to observe anything not explicitly stated in the invitation doesn’t mean I have to be.” 

“It’s a power move,” Maes says to Ed, deliberately ignoring Roy. “Showing up half an hour late is polite, showing up an hour or more late is him challenging anyone to say something.” 

Ed snorts. “That’s dumb as hell.” 

Maes shrugs, resigned. “He is what he is, you know.” 

“I’m standing right here!” Roy protests indignantly. 

“Bye then,” Maes says, pretending not to have heard him. “I’ve got to go. Gracia will need help with her hair.” 

Roy watches him walk off quickly, resisting the urge to singe the man’s heels a bit. 

Ed snorts, and Roy looks at him. 

“What?” 

“You look so pissed,” Ed says, like Roy’s annoyance is amusing and not deeply frustrating. 

“I am not—” 

Ed just keeps laughing. 

These are the people he relies on, and they all love tormenting him. Fuck, he needs new friends. 

Ed looks a sight— not because of the suit, the first few buttons strategically undone, nor the elaborate bun, held in place with intricate gold pins (that are, to be fair, shaped like dragons with miniature rubies for eyes. But it’s Ed, so really, what was he expecting? (He was expecting something as debatably tasteful, with far, far, less value, to the point where he had actually been suspicious as to the legality of their origins. (‘What do you mean ‘are they real?’ ‘I mean, did you make them.’ ‘Make— Roy, do I look like the sort of person who would bother making an array for something this fiddly and stupid?’ ‘Good point.’) Ed had, unfortunately, declined to admit to their origins after that line of questioning, so Roy is working under the assumption that Ed has either had at least one very rich lover, or that he just flat out stole them, and he’s leaning very heavily towards the latter)). It’s not the clothes, nor the hair (though they don’t hurt); Ed looks a sight because he’s spent the last hour chatting up deeply dull officers, and Roy can see a feral sort of light growing in his eyes that promises a show. 

Roy subtly slides behind Brigadier General Kemsley, catching Maes’ eye and jerking his head to indicate that he should come over, and tucks behind one of the many pillars flanking the outskirts of the room, just out of sight. 

“How did you two meet?” he hears Mrs. Kemsley ask. 

“Oh,” Ed says, and Roy can practically see him ducking his eyes and biting his lip. Maes better get over here quick, because this is incredible. “well, it’s not a super interesting story. We were in a bar, and I was in the corner. I saw him come in and I just, like— y’know? And he came over to me! And I was so confused, but then he smiled and said I was beautiful, and I just—” Ed sighs dreamily. 

Roy has to keep himself from choking on his laughter. 

Maes finally shoves his way through the crowd to see Roy’s face. 

‘ _What?_ ’ He mouths. 

Roy jerks his head over to where Ed is talking. ‘ _Listen._ ’ 

“You’re not the first to fall for his charms,” Mrs. Kemsley says. 

“Oh,” Ed sounds crestfallen. “I know, but I think— I think he really likes me, you know?” His tone rises at the end like he’s asking a question— like Ed thinks they are a good source on Roy’s proclivity for infidelity. 

“Of course not,” Kemsley says conciliatorily. There’s a sound like he’s patting Ed on the arm. “I can’t imagine him not being enamoured with someone like you.” 

“You really think?” 

“Of course,” Kemsley laughs. “Still, I’m sure he’s gone a good deal.” 

“Well,” Ed says, “his job is hard, right?” 

“Yes,” Kemsley says patronizingly, “you know us military types, always working.” 

“Yeah!” Ed replies. “He must do a lot of hard work.” 

Roy bites the inside of his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing. 

“Oh, yes,” Kemsley says, “in fact, he and I are on a committee together right now.” 

“The one for that industry thing?” Ed asks. Roy wants to cackle. He knows that tone. It’s the one Elicia used for years to get out of trouble by pretending she couldn’t _possibly_ have known what Maes meant by ‘don’t eat that.’ 

“Yes,” Kemsley replies. “Do you know anything about it?” 

“Yep!” Ed says brightly. Roy is willing to bet his left arm that he’s nodding emphatically. “Roy says he’s having trouble with Representative Alscher stopping him. He says he’s trying to get the bill through most of the time, and” he drops his tone, “he keeps meeting with Mr., uh— Obrien?” 

“Obren?” Kemsley asked, tone giving away his interest. 

Roy smirks. Oh, this should be interesting. 

“Yeah,” Ed says, “him. I think it’s pretty impressive that he’s making plans with someone who he’s working against.” 

Across from him, the desire to laugh and the desire to crow in delight is warring on Maes’ face. 

“Reaching across the aisle,” Kemsley says in a sage tone, clearly under the impression that Ed is an idiot for thinking Roy is actually trying to get the bill through. “Well, you’re certainly a very intelligent young man.” 

“Oh,” Ed sounds bashful again, “you think? I know I’m not really good at this stuff. Roy’s work is so confusing.” 

“No, you’re doing very well,” Kingsley congratulates. “It’s difficult.” 

“Oh, wow.” Ed sounds like he’s blushing. Is he blushing? Can he blush on command? God, Roy would pay to be able to do that. “You’re so nice!” He drops his tone, sounding even more shy and embarrassed. “It’s so hard to talk to people here. I don’t understand anything.” 

“Well,” Kemsley says, “you just come to me and I’ll help explain it, why don’t you?” 

“Really?” Ed says. “Oh boy, thanks so much, sir.” 

Roy collapses back against the column, shaking with laughter. Priceless. 

“Call me Bill,” Kemsley says. 

“Dear,” Mrs. Kemsley says, “I think those are the Mathesons. Shall we go say hello?” 

“Of course.” It sounds like the Kemsleys start to turn away. “It was a pleasure to talk to you Edward. I’d love to chat some more later.” 

Roy counts to thirty before he moves from the shadow of the column, dragging Hughes with him. 

“Huh,” Ed says, looking at the two of them. “I _thought_ you were listening.” 

Maes cackles. “I didn’t realize you thought Roy’s job was so hard.” 

Ed snorts, irritation flaring in his eyes and hand clenching and unclenching. “I can’t describe how much I want to punch that man.” 

“Of course, darling,” Roy says, slipping an arm around Ed’s waist, “but you’re almost making me jealous. You sounded like you really liked him.” 

Ed rolls his eyes, relaxing slightly from Roy’s light tone and the nearly-there restraint of his hand around Ed’s waist. “I do all your work for you, and this is what I get?” 

“Sorry, my everlasting thanks will have to wait,” Roy mutters. He leans in for a kiss— mostly for appearances, since he doesn’t really relish public displays of affection at the best of times and this certainly isn’t one of them, but also because Ed just played Kemsley like the cheap whistle he is and Roy’s not likely to see anything more enjoyable for _at least_ the rest of the night. 

“Ugh,” Ed says, seeming to register about half of what just went through Roy’s brain, then kisses him back. 

Hughes raises an eyebrow at both of them, then gestures subtly towards the far side of the room. “Look.” 

Kemsley is talking to Representative Alscher, who is glancing inconspicuously towards Roy. 

Roy lets his gaze drift over him, pretending to settle on where Maria Ross is standing in a very short dress. Ed pretends to follow his gaze, then looks back at Roy and pouts just dramatically enough that Roy can tell he’s faking it for show. 

“You’re fucking welcome,” Ed says, turning so that Alscher can’t see him. He grins. 

“Thank you,” Hughes says. “That’s going to make our lives a lot easier now that we don’t have to constantly be trying to keep Alscher from strangling Roy.” 

Ed frowns. “Metaphorically?” 

Roy snorts. “Mostly, though I wouldn’t put it past him. It’ll just be nice for them to let me make some additions to the bill— for show, of course— and then watch as it goes through.” 

“Exactly,” Hughes says, “now, unless Roy wants to drag me away again, I’m going to go dance with my beautiful wife.” 

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy listening to that.” 

Hughes shrugs. “Nothing compares to my gorgeous wife.” 

Roy declines to mention that Maes’ gorgeous wife, who is currently casting spurious glances at the dubious lemon tart along the far wall, would probably have been very annoyed at him if he didn’t come back to her with a full report of Ed’s activities. 

“So,” Roy says, watching Hughes walk away, “I think I’ve got a minute or two before I need to mingle. Care for a dance?” 

Ed raises his eyebrows. “With you?” 

“With Kemsley.” 

“Shut up,” Ed says, grabbing Roy and pulling him towards the dance floor. “You can lead this time, but only because we’re in public and you need the help.” 

“How did we do?” Roy asks quietly. 

They— meaning him, Maes, Garcia, Ed, and Hawkeye— are gathered at the side of the portico, a good distance away from any other party-goers, waiting for their respective cars. 

Maes ticks off on his fingers as he goes. “On the civilian side, you got Williams and Jones, I got Gardner and Vaughan, and Gracia got Sutton. On the military side, Hawkeye got Sauer, you got Abrams, and Ed got Kemsley.” 

“Eight out of nine,” Roy muses, “not bad.” 

“One of our best, actually,” Maes says. “Thanks Ed.” 

Ed huffs. “Yeah, whatever, sure. I had the night free anyways.” 

“You always have your nights free,” Roy remarks, stepping out of hitting distance as Ed takes a half-hearted swing at him. 

“Not the point,” Ed says, and then, before Roy can ask what is the point, exactly, “and shut up.” 

Maes snorts. “Do we need to make you two stand on either side of the street?” 

“Do we need to shove a sock in your mouth?” Ed retorts. 

“He gets cranky when he’s tired.” Roy smirks, and narrowly misses the vicious kick aimed at his leg. 

Gracia, who is watching the whole scene with an eminently amused look on her face, slips between him and Ed. “It _is_ a rather good turno— oh dear, it appears your hair is rather a mess.” If Roy hadn’t known her for so many years, he’d be almost convinced by her look of wide-eyed innocence as she pulls Ed to the side. “Let me fix it.” 

She pulls him just out of earshot, putting Hawkeye between them as another barrier. 

“He handled himself pretty well,” Maes remarks. 

Roy shrugs. 

“You don’t seem surprised.” 

“I’m learning not to underestimate him,” Roy remarks dryly. 

Maes snorts. “The Scar thing really shocked you out of it, didn’t it?” 

“Something like that,” Roy acknowledges. “Meeting his mother didn’t hurt. Nor does hearing a new deeply horrifying story about his teenage shenanigans every other day or so.” 

“Shenanigans?” 

“Felonies,” Roy clarifies. 

“That sounds more like it.” Maes frowns. “Hawkeye still doesn’t like him, does she.” 

Roy inclines his head slightly. “I’m trying not to take it personally.” 

“She doesn’t mean it personally.” 

“I know.” Roy sighs. “She’s probably right, anyways. I should pull back instead of diving in head-first.” 

“Probably,” Maes agrees. “Even I think you were a little quick to get him involved in this.” 

“You don’t think he’s trustworthy.” 

“Of course not,” Maes says, “but you can trust him.” 

Roy blinks, waiting for an explanation. 

“He can take care of himself— that’s all. Trust him to take things in stride, and don’t give him information he might spill until you’re sure he won’t.” Maes sighs. “He’s not hostile, and the more I talk to him the less inclined I am to think that he’d ever try to sabotage you out of revenge. Treat him like someone you’re training— don’t throw him into the deep end, but don’t kick him out of the pool entirely.” 

“Metaphors are not your strong suit,” Roy says. 

“But advice is.” 

Roy snorts. “You might be right.” 

“I always am.” 

It’s been a long day. It usually is, what with all the subterfuge and backstabbing and general nastiness that Maes deals with on a daily basis. He’s willing to bet that the only people who consistently leave work more depressed and exhausted than he does are retail workers on sale days. 

Normally, he’d be home kissing his lovely wife and attempting to talk to Elicia about the difference between emo and punk-rock while watching Lucia struggle through math homework at the kitchen table. Normally, he’d be just about slipping his jacket off and sliding right next to Gracia to peel the potatoes. 

Normally, however, Hawkeye isn’t pissed at Roy, and Roy isn’t inclined to argue with her. 

“Okay,” Maes says, stepping in the door of Roy’s house to see Hawkeye very angrily and very deliberately knitting on his couch, and Roy collapsed on a chair with an arm thrown over his eyes, “what’s the problem?” 

“We need to decide what to do about Edward,” Hawkeye says, needles clacking together in a particularly aggressive manner. 

“Ah,” Maes says, slipping his shoes off and going to collapse on the couch across from Hawkeye, “that.” 

“He’s a liability,” Hawkeye says. 

“Well, yes,” Maes agrees, “but a potential resource, too— one who’s agreed to be used as such.” 

“What happens when they end it?” She asks, putting in another forceful stitch. 

“We trust that he won’t leak anything out of support for Roy’s career.” 

This puts a stop to her knitting. 

Hawkeye sets the needles down, narrowing her eyes. “When have you _ever_ trusted someone that isn’t me or him?” 

Maes huffs. “You people always think it’s so black and white. Look, we can trust him to have similar enough politics not to say anything, and if he does, we’ll dredge up his criminal record, and all the cover-ups involved, and spread something ten times worse about someone else a day later.” 

“And that will negate the damage?” 

“It won’t entirely negate it, of course,” Maes says, “but it will— at the very least— keep it from being too damaging.” 

“I’m failing to see the upsides of this,” she replies, though she sounds significantly less angry. 

“I won’t be so fucking lonely,” Roy blankly, a sure sign that he’s telling the truth. Roy only gets over-emotional when he’s faking. “That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” 

“Not in so many words,” Maes says, “but yes.” 

Hawkeye frowns. “And you, Hughes, are willing to vouch that it’s an appropriate risk for the reward?” 

Maes nods. 

“Fine,” Hawkeye sighs. “I still don’t like him, but if I’m outvoted, then I’ll trust you.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Dinner?” Roy suggests. 

Maes shrugs. He’d told Gracia not to expect him until late, and it’s been a while since the three of them have spent time together in a non-work context. Which, he thinks, looking at Roy’s dark circles and the tight lines around Riza’s mouth, is probably sorely needed. 

An hour later, the three of them are situated in Roy’s living room with containers in hand. Riza has her feet primly tucked under her on the couch as she eats, Maes has put his feet up on an ottoman, and Roy is sitting across from Riza, one leg thrown off the couch and one leg stretched out. 

The phone rings, and Roy and Maes look at each other, both silently begging the other to pick it up. (Neither of them look at Riza. She’d made it very clear long ago that she was no one’s secretary and they could damn well answer their own phones.) 

Roy huffs, and gives in, putting the phone on speaker. “Mustang.” 

“General Mustang,” and unfamiliar voice says in a vaguely menacing tone, “we have your boyfriend.” 

“Do you really?” Roy drawls in response, unimpressed. 

Maes has known Roy for a long time, but the level of detachment Roy is displaying now is on a level Maes never thought he’d see— at least in regards to an alleged kidnapping. How often, Maes wonders, to people call Roy and tell him this sort of thing? 

“Perhaps you’d like to hear from him yourself,” the voice says, having gone from vaguely menacing to cartoonishly evil. 

Roy raises an eyebrow and reaches for the receipt and a pen. “I would.” 

To Maes’ surprise, Ed does come on the line. 

“Sweetheart,” Ed says, voice wavering with fear, “I’m sorry! I don’t know where I am and they— they said they’d hurt me and I’m _sorry_.” His voice borders on hysteric by the end of the sentence. 

Maes looks to Roy, expecting to see a carefully blank face heralding a good deal of Roy’s version of freaking out, which is to go icy cold and pace around the room, thinking. Instead, he sees Roy scribbling something down as Ed speaks, looking perfectly relaxed. 

Roy takes a breath, and then speaks, his relaxed stance belying the ice-cold tone he’s taken. “What do you want.” 

“One million cens in cash.” 

“Done,” Roy says, though there’s a quirk to his lips as he does so. “Where should we make the trade off?” 

The person on the other end of the line scoffs. “You have twelve hours to get the money. We’ll call you when the twelve hours is up.” 

“Very well,” Roy says, turning his attention back to the receipt, where he’s absentmindedly ticking at whatever he’s written down. 

“You’ll hear from us in twelve hours.” The line goes dead. 

There’s a pause, punctuated by the sound of Roy’s pen. 

“Are you in shock?” Maes asks. 

“No,” Roy replies absently, still ticking away at his receipt. “Do I look like I’m in shock?” 

Well, no, Maes admits. He doesn’t. But Roy also doesn’t usually respond to anything remotely within the realm of his boyfriend begging for his life with the sort of amusement he’s just shown. Granted, Roy in shock is a lot less articulate than Roy right now, but Roy right now should be looking like an emotionless husk from the desperate repression of all his panic, not neatly finishing a note and pushing it off to the side to get back to his food. 

Maes looks at Hawkeye. She’s as confused as he is. Great. 

“Roy,” Maes says, hoping saying his name will snap him out of whatever denial he’s in, “what are we going to do?” 

“Hmm?” Roy frowns and sets down his fork. “Nothing.” 

“Roy,” Maes repeats, looking at Hawkeye for some help. “Did you not hear Ed?” 

“I did,” Roy says. “That’s why I’m not worried.” 

“Roy,” Hawkeye tries. _Oof_. She must be really worried to break out his first name. “You heard what he said. They’ll hurt him if we don’t do something.” 

“Mm-hm,” Roy agrees. He takes the receipt he had written Ed’s message on and hands it to the two of them. The top half is covered in Ed’s words, with dots and slashes above them. The bottom half has only a single message in block letters. 

‘FINE. DONT COME.’ 

“Uh,” Maes says. “What?” 

“Didn’t you hear him?” Roy asks. “It was a code.” 

“Sir?” Hawkeye replies. She looks almost impressed. 

Maes frowns. “How did you know?” 

“When Ed was thirteen, his brother was kidnapped.” 

“Weird non-sequitur,” Maes mutters, “but sure.” 

Roy continues as if he hadn’t heard Maes. “In the three days Alphonse was missing, Ed single-handedly wrecked fourteen buildings, two of which were safehouses for the some of the most prominent gang members in Dublith.” 

“Uh-huh,” Maes says. “Your point?” 

“Ed doesn’t get scared,” Roy says, finally looking up. His face is glowing, eyes burning with pride and amount of lust that makes Maes incredibly uncomfortable. “He gets angry.” 

Ed shifts uncomfortably in the chair, wrists straining awkwardly against the handcuffs. Ugh. He’s going to have bruises by the time this is over. 

He hopes Roy got his message. Actually, forget hoping, he’s fucking begging whatever cosmic laws that like to periodically screw him over to just skip over him this one time. He’s already gotten kidnapped. That should be enough bad luck for one day. 

The code itself was a gamble. Ed had told him about it a few months ago when he’d been trying to crack his dad’s journals and Roy had helped him write out a list of possible ciphers to test for permutations. Roy isn’t called a genius for no reason— there’s a decent chance he’d be able to reproduce at least one of the phrases Ed had told him about on a normal day— but he tends to do stupid things like stop eating and sleeping whenever he freaks out, and that sort of thing is really bad for his mental processing capacity. 

_Don’t be an idiot_ , Ed pleads with the concrete ceiling. _Use your fucking brain._

Because, logically, Roy should know that Ed is capable of getting out of this on his own. Also logically, it would set a terrible precedent if Roy actually responded to any ransom attempts, either with cash or with force, because cash would just encourage more kidnapping attempts and force would prove that Ed does actually need protection. It’s bad enough that the people who keep trying to kidnap Ed aren’t smart enough to figure out that there’s a reason he doesn’t have bodyguards. It would be worse if Ed actually needed them. (Also, Hawkeye might already shoot him. She’ll probably boil him in oil if Roy actually has to do something about the kidnapping. He’s _just_ gotten Hayate to like him. Getting kidnapped against her express request is really going to put a damper on any future awkward friend-of-a-friend relationship he and Hawkeye might have.) 

Ed uses the spiked bracelet on his left hand to cut his right thumb, and draws a circle on his wrist with the blood. It’s slow going, made slower by the fact that Ed hasn’t had to do this since Teacher made him, Al, and Winry practice, and by the fact that he’s going to have to do the deconstruction of the handcuffs in pieces, since he isn’t sure what the alloy composition is and he doesn’t have enough room to add anything to the circle that would allow him wiggle room with the exact composition. 

As he works, Ed stares at the spot of mold on the wall. They’re definitely underground somewhere in Central, probably near the old docks, though he’s not entirely sure. They’d drugged him before they’d jumped him, and it only felt like he’d been out for half an hour when he woke up, but it could be longer or shorter and he’d have no way of knowing. 

The problem with attempted kidnappings, Ed thinks as he works, is that he’s not used to them actually succeeding. Fuck, the only reason they’d succeeded tonight is that he’d already been tipsy when they got to his drink. He frowns. Maybe Al is right, and he should be more careful. 

Ed activates the first circle, getting rid of the nickel plating so he can get to the chrome steel. He catches the lump of nickel before it drops to the floor and shoves it in his pocket. 

He immediately gets to work on the second circle, this time for the chromium in the steel. He’s not sure how long he has, but the second they notice the light from the transmutation, Ed is screwed. (Normally, he’d be able to funnel the excess energy from the reaction into pure heat, but normally he doesn’t have about an inch and a half of space to work with and can’t even see what he’s doing, so he’s sure as hell not going to mess with heat unless he wants third degree burns.) 

There hasn’t been much noise from his kidnappers since they made him talk to Roy, just the occasional creaking of the floor above him— enough to let him know that they’re still there, but not enough to let him know what they’re actually doing. Hell, most of them might be sleeping, which would be great, because then he doesn’t have to worry about guns. 

Ed eyes the stairs speculatively. They’re wood, and this house is old, which means he has one shot to get up the stairs. There’s no way they’re not creaking and giving him away. He could try to make a tunnel out of here, but if they’re near the docks, then he doesn’t trust the structural integrity of the ground. Everything is moist around here, and he doesn’t really fancy the idea of making a tunnel only for it to collapse in a slop of earth and concrete. 

He activates the second circle, catching the chromium before it drops to the floor and shoving it into his pocket along with the nickel. The handcuffs are, unfortunately, still mostly intact, though they’re just iron and some other trace elements now. Ed frowns. He’d been hoping that the mixture would be enough chromium to leave the remaining iron weak. 

There’s a shift from upstairs, and Ed freezes for a second. Then he winces. First rule of escaping: freezing does fucking nothing for you (except get you extra chores when your teacher realizes that you were stupid enough to do it). 

Ed draws the third circle as quickly as he can, and activates it. The iron melts into a lump, which he catches, and his wrists are finally free from the remnants of the handcuffs. 

...the handcuffs that clatter to the floor. 

Ed swears under his breath, vaguely hoping that his luck will hold and no one will notice. 

His luck doesn’t hold. Because why would it. 

There’s a clatter upstairs, and Ed quickly reviews his options. 

Option one: Pretend he’s still tied up. He might be able to simulate some handcuffs, but the second they look at his hands and see the transmutation circles, or the fact that the handcuffs are covered in marks, he’s screwed. 

Option two: Hide. That’s a non-option, because there’s nowhere in the basement to hide. 

Option three: Fight. Objectively a terrible option. They have guns, he doesn’t. They’re clear-headed, he has a headache and he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol or whatever they drugged him with, but it’s making him slow. Unfortunately, it’s the only option that won’t end up with him back in handcuffs _and_ with a new guard. 

Ed cuts his index finger and sketches a circle for making a knife— this one, at least, he’s not rusty on. He grabs the chromium and iron and activates the circle, watching them melt together into a serviceable blade with a pommel large enough to knock someone out if he hits them in the right place. He hefts it up in his right hand, testing it out. Decent balance, but useless against guns. 

Ed grimaces, and ducks under the stairs. 

Thankfully, he only hears one person come down. Good. They still think he’s not a threat. 

The person pauses halfway down, staring at the empty chair. Ed grimaces, and grabs their ankle, tugging them to the floor with a thump. He has their arms pinned down with his knees and a knife to their throat before they can speak. 

“What’s going on?” Shouts a man from the top of the stairs. 

“Say everything is fine,” Ed says softly, using his mom’s carefully cultivated ‘I will kill you and smile while doing it’ tone. (Al has always been better at it than he has, but he thinks he’s decent enough at it to pass, especially if he’s got a knife in his hand while he uses it.) “Say that I was just hitting the cuffs against the chair.” 

The man underneath him is silent for a second too long, and Ed presses the knife a little farther into his neck, drawing a thin line of red. “Say it.” 

The man jumps, the situation finally seeming to register with him. “Everything is fine!” He calls up, though he sounds terrified. “He was just hitting— hitting the cuffs against the chair.” 

Ed huffs. He couldn’t have been just a little more convincing? 

“Okay,” the man at the top calls, though it’s clear they don’t believe him. 

Ed hears the door open again, and quickly uses the pommel to knock the man underneath him out. He doesn’t have enough time to drag the body out of the way, but he does duck back under the stairs. 

The second man comes down, stopping far higher up than the first one— high enough that Ed can’t grab his ankle and pull him off. Ed grimaces, waiting to see what he’s going to do. If the man keeps a clear head, he’ll figure out that Ed’s got to be under the stairs, and he might just start shooting. If he panics, he might grab some help and come all the way down. That, Ed can work with. 

The man panics, calling for help, and after a second there’s two more sets of footsteps on the stairs. 

“What happened?” One of the people— a woman, this time— asks. 

“Gregor’s knocked out.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Well?” The first man asks. “Go check it out.” 

“Why can’t you check it out?” The woman replies sourly. 

“Afraid that the kid’s going to get you?” 

“I’m not—” the woman pauses. “Where is the kid, anyhow?” 

“Under the stairs,” the third person answers. “Clearly.” 

The woman huffs. “Alright, kid. Come on out or we start shooting.” 

Ed frowns, weighs his options, and comes out, hiding the knife behind his forearm. “Don’t shoot.” He widens his eyes and tries his best to seem scared, which, okay, he is, but he’s mostly just annoyed that he’s stuck in a moldy basement with a terrible headache. 

The third person looks at his hands, confused. “What happened to the cuffs?” 

Ed knows he should probably continue acting scared, but his heart’s not really in it. “I slipped them,” he says. “That’s the noise you heard.” 

The woman makes a face. “What do we do with him now? Knock him out again?” 

“Lock him down here,” the third person suggests. “The door only opens from the outside.” 

Ed resists the urge to groan. He can destroy the door, of course, but he’s just gotten them all down here. 

“Step away from Gregor,” the woman orders. 

Ed steps away obligingly. 

The woman orders the first man down, and Ed waits until he’s halfway through hoisting Gregor onto his shoulders before stepping behind him and holding the knife to his throat. The man drops Gregor, and Ed smiles wolfishly, and grabs the man’s gun. 

Ed shoots the woman and the third person in the calf— painful enough to distract them with a very low chance of bleeding out— before knocking out the first man. Both the people on the stairs drop their guns. 

He starts climbing the stairs, kicking the woman’s gun away into the basement. His attention is only away for a moment, but the third person grabs their dropped gun in that time. Ed turns back around and there’s the sound of a gunshot, and a growing pain in his calf. 

He doesn’t drop his gun, but he does collapse to the stairs. 

“Really?” He growls at the person, staring down the barrel at them. “Was that fucking necessary?” 

The person just glares at him. 

Ed huffs, ignoring the growing pain in his calf. “Drop the gun or I shoot.” 

The person drops the gun, and Ed grabs it and tosses it off the stairs. He briefly considers getting up, but the sharp spike of pain when he moves his leg convinces him otherwise. Instead, he drops the dead weight of the knocked-out man and starts scooting up the stairs awkwardly, glaring at the person the entire time. 

When he gets close enough to hit them, he knocks them out too, leaving just the woman. 

“Please don’t do anything,” he tells her, exhausted. “You’ll just hurt your leg if you move, and I’ll be able get you a doctor if you stay there.” 

The woman gives him a grimace, and he hoists himself up into the doorway. 

Beyond the doorway is a kitchen. Ed grabs the edge of the countertop, using it to pull himself into a standing position. He closes the door to the basement, then, careful not to put any weight on his leg, goes to the phone and dials Roy’s number. 

“Mustang,” comes Roy’s voice from the other end of the line, and Ed tries to ignore the relief pooling in his stomach. 

“Hey,” Ed says, exhausted. “Can you come get me? And bring some EMTs. I’ve got two people shot in the leg. Oh, and I got shot in the leg too. And there’s two people knocked out.” He pauses. “You know where I am, right? Because if you make me go outside on this leg I swear to—” 

“We know where you are,” Roy says, and Ed’s definitely not imagining the amusement in his voice. There’s a sound like Roy is ordering people around, and then he speaks again. “I’m assuming no one is in danger of bleeding out?” 

Ed grimaces. “I might be if you take too long. And if you don’t let me sit down.” 

“Then by all means,” Roy says. Then, more seriously, “We’ll be there soon.” 

Roy hangs up, and Ed does the same. 

He makes his way to the kitchen table, slumping down in a chair and hoisting his injured leg onto another one. Ed briefly considers doing some alkahestry— he’s not _that_ bad at it, all things considered— but then realizes that the room is a little fuzzier than it should be and his head still feels like someone is pounding a ten-ton nail into it and maybe messing around with complicated alchemy is a bad idea. Ed frowns, licks his teeth, and settles in to wait. 

It’s barely fifteen minutes until someone is coming in— multiple someones, judging by the sound. 

Ed looks up, expecting to see Roy, and instead sees Hawkeye looking at him with something akin to grudging respect. 

“Can we please save the angry lecture until later?” Ed asks, too tired to keep from whining. 

Riza gives him a look like he’s an idiot. “You need medical attention.” 

Ed shrugs. “Other people are down in the basement. They said they wouldn’t try anything but they might have guns.” 

“Hm,” she says, and moves down the stairs. 

There’s some vague shouting that Ed can’t be bothered to pay attention to, mostly because his leg is really starting to hurt now that the adrenaline has worn off, but a little bit because Roy is there, looking at him with his normal near-inscrutable expression. 

“You didn’t panic,” Ed says, tired but approving. 

“I am a professional,” Roy replies. He looks to the basement, sees that Riza has collected all the guns, and turns back to Edward. “There should be a doctor here in two minutes.” 

Ed blinks, waiting for the words to register, then frowns. “Ugh. Al’s out of town.” 

Roy raises one eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“He could heal me,” Ed clarifies. “Absolute genius at medical alkahestry. I’m just good at blowing shit up.” 

Roy comes to sit next to him, taking his hand and looking at the array. “What’s this for?” 

“Knife.” 

Roy snorts. “Figures.” 

Ed frowns, trying to be annoyed. “I draw arrays in my own blood behind my back and you just think it’s funny that I have one for a knife memorized.” 

Roy looks up at him, amused, but with more than a hint of genuine care behind his eyes. “I think that you’re terrifyingly competent, and not just at blowing shit up.” 

“Mm,” Ed agrees. “Also at beating shit up. And sheep shearing.” 

Roy smiles a small, soft, smile. “Riza was very impressed when she heard.” 

“You think she’ll finally like me?” Ed asks. 

There’s a small snort from Riza, who’s standing in the basement doorway. 

“Guess not,” Ed says. “At least her dog likes me.” 

“Yes,” Riza says, “because you’ve been bribing him.” 

Ed groans. “You noticed?” 

“You’re not subtle.” 

“Subtle enough,” Roy contradicts. 

Riza closes her eyes and sighs. “Yes, subtle enough.” 

“Look,” Ed says, “I’m in way too much pain to decode this. Can you two have a normal conversation for once in your fucking lives?” 

“She approves,” Roy says. 

Riza raises an eyebrow. 

“Allows,” he corrects. “She no longer thinks you’re a horrible, gaping, weakness.” 

“Just a weakness,” she agrees. 

“Oh, good,” Ed says. “When I don’t have a bullet in my leg, we’ll talk.” 

“Yes,” she says with a hint of warmth in her eyes. “We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> me, throwing in foreshadowing as to the next installment: I WONDER if anyone will NOTICE who is going to SHOW UP next time


End file.
